Krov, Moya Krov
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Modern Warfare 2. The Russian Navy's Northern Fleet is a few miles from New York City. Aboard the Admiral Kuznetsov-class carrier "Admiral Yuri Borodin", the 126th Independent Helicopter Squadron has been given the honour of being the first into the fight.
1. Chapter 1- Origins

**Chapter I- Origins**

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**A/N: A few notes I thought I'd add. The_ Admiral Yuri Borodin_ is a fictional Admiral Kuznetsov-class aircraft carrier, a Chief Starshina is equivalent to a Master Chief Petty Officer, and a Midshipman in this case is equivalent to an Ensign. Krov, Moya Krov means "Blood, My Blood" in Russian.**

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It was mid August, and not far away in the continental United States, many thousands of Americans were enjoying the gradual end of a hot summer, the days now subsiding to a more pleasant warm. Schoolchildren were dreading their inevitable return to school in less than a month, and one school in western Maryland had put on its announcements sign the words RESISTANCE IS FUTILE.

But out on the North Atlantic, the story was very different. The wind whipped across the decks of a fleet of gray warships, and more than once over the past few days freezing rain had indifferently lashed the ships and those crewmen who had to be above-decks. Today, however, the men of the Northern Fleet had been lucky. The storm that they'd passed by the edge of was behind them, and good weather lay ahead. In fact, the morning of August 10th, 2016, the weather was almost perfect. It was still somewhat cloudy, and a gray fog masked the fleet's steady approach. Enormous additions had been made to the Northern Fleet in the past few months; men and officers had worked overtime to accommodate the massive expansion suddenly witnessed by every arm of the Russian military, as reserves were called up and new recruits rapidly trained.

Thanks to the ultimate triumph of the ultranationalists in the late civil war in Russia, military spending had been restored to what it had been in the old Soviet days. In fact, not only that, but the USSR was essentially being brought back in all ways but name. The Russian Federation was no more; instead, it had become the Russian Democratic Union as of a year ago, and Kazakhstan had already knelt again beneath the new banner of red, black and white. Patterned the same way as the old RF flag, the RDU's used new colours that were more clearly reminiscent of the glory of the old Soviet days. Russian aircraft and tanks now carried red stars on their armour with a pride not seen for decades.

Russia had needed someone to make her strong again; gangsters and corrupt capitalist politicians had overrun the Kremlin after the fall of the USSR and the end of the Cold War. The Russian people, despairing in the face of rampant gangsterism and corruption, had cried out for a hero- and Imran Zakhaev had answered. Killed for his fearless devotion to the Russian people- for his selfless vow to avenge the injustices done to them by the West and restore the Motherland's honour- Zakhaev had finally seen recognition for his heroism after the ultranationalists' ultimate victory in the Second Russian Civil War. A monument stood before the Kremlin in Moscow: it showed a life-size Zakhaev riding a rearing horse, holding aloft a bared sword. On the side of the statue's base, a plaque held the words: IMRAN ZAKHAEV, HERO OF THE NEW RUSSIA.

For his part, Andrei Kriegman couldn't understand why the West was so hell-bent on ruining the glory and strength of Russia- and of her highest achievement, the unconquerable might of the worker's nation, the Soviet Union. He'd read the history books, looked over the news articles and political memoirs detailing the American "triumph" in the Cold War, a triumph that had ruined the Russian people completely. It puzzled Andre to no end that the Americans worshipped that one president of theirs- was his name Raygan?- as much as they did. Andrei had pored over books about him- and gotten a hearty laugh when he found an American journalist's 2005 book, a book that tore that actor-turned-President a new one. Ultimately, Andrei seemed to find that the Americans worshipped this man because he had "won the Cold War". By that, they apparently meant "simply got lucky and took credit for the work of every past President since Eisenhower". Yes, that certainly made sense that the Americans would do that. Easier to tell people just enough to make them "good Americans", and no more.

Andrei was a Russian citizen; as a matter of fact, he was a Midshipman in the Russian Navy, selected to fly with the elite 126th Independent Helicopter Squadron- first in the Russian Navy to be given the new Mil Mi-45, the "Super Hind" as the West had taken to calling it. It had been a great honour for Andrei, one he'd been given after graduating 4th in his class at the Moscow Flight School in May 2016. It was an even greater honour when one considered Andrei's German origins.

Vizeadmiral Hendrik Kriegman had been the youngest three-star admiral in the history of the Volksmarine, the navy of the German Democratic Republic- to the West "East Germany". He had dedicated his career- his life- to serving the DDR, to proving that it deserved a respected place not only in the Warsaw Pact as a trusted ally of the USSR, but among the family of nations. He had achieved so much of what he'd set out to do- and then 1990 had happened. The fall of the Berlin Wall had happened.

Suddenly, Vizeadmiral Kriegman had become a desk clerk in the office of a West German admiral two ranks his junior, and even then only tolerated for a few weeks as the Bundesmarine took over the Volksmarine's offices and facilities. There had been no retirement ceremony for any of the Volksmarine's admirals, or for the Nationalvolksarmee's or the Luftstreitkräfte's generals. Instead, these life-long servants of the East German state, fully expecting a well-earned retirement, saw not only their rank but their retirement and even the very nation they'd served vanish overnight. Hendrik Kriegman had given more than thirty years of his life to the East German state, and now it was gone, blown away like smoke in the wind.

"And what have we now in Germany?" Andrei's grandfather had asked him once, bitterly watching a reporter's comments on the "deplorable" state of the former DDR, its infrastructure, industries and economy, on the West German TV and the West German news station it was tuned in to. That had been in 1999; Andrei, barely five years old, hadn't quite understood, but his grandfather went on, "A land of bankers and car-makers. The Army has gone soft; soldiers wear beards and question orders. And us in the East? We're the losers. Everything's our fault."

Taking a drink from the glass of beer clenched firmly in his hand, Hendrik Kriegman had muttered something- he seemed to be drawing a comparison between the people of the East with the "damned Jews", saying the former had essentially replaced the latter as the scapegoats of Germany. Andrei's father- Hans- had ushered Andrei out of the room then, and the two men had had a rather heated discussion afterwards.

But the Kriegman family had plainly been ruined by the DDR's vanishing into the night like it had. Their old tradition of being soldiers and statesmen had been 'tarnished' by their service as East German soldiers and policemen, as well as elected officials- nobody wanted to hire a former Volkspolizei officer, fearing he would fall back on his old training and simply break every protest up with force. Nobody cared if a man had been an admiral in the Volksmarine, or an Oberstgeneral in the Luftstreitkräfte- they were all communists. Dirty, nasty communists. The suddenly negative image of being a "good socialist" broke Hendrik Kriegman's spirit a little more every year, and when he finally passed away in 2000 he'd been a shadow of the powerful man he'd once been. He'd lost his way, and had simply not known how to find it again. Soon after, Andrei had heard his father say, "That's it. We're going to Königsberg."

And so they had.

It was called Kaliningrad since 1945, but some Germans had not quite gotten used to it; even families that had embraced the DDR- like the Kriegman's- had slipped and used the old name once in a while. The Kriegman family had left Andrei's original home of Rostock in 2000, and each year since the family had gone a little more Russian, working hard to learn the ways of their new country.

Surprisingly, Hendrik Kriegman's many old comrades from the navies of the Warsaw Pact had heard of the Kriegman's departure from Germany, and a handful had shown up, paid visits and offered assistance. Tanya Kriegman had been able to reach an old Soviet Navy friend of Hendrik's, who had used his connections with the former KGB to ensure that the Kriegman family was recognized as what they were- Germans, yes, but East Germans. Good socialists like anyone else who had been unfairly treated- a gross understatement- by the excesses of the capitalist West. Life was hard for Andrei growing up; as much as they wanted to help, even Hendrik Kriegman's old friends from the Soviet military had been unable to spare much. The years since the Cold War had been unkind to them, too, and there was little money to go around.

Hans Kriegman had joined the Russian Air Force, and in spite of his German name had managed to make a decent living as a bomber pilot, eventually gaining enough trust within the Air Force to be assigned to a unit flying the Russian Federation's elite strategic bomber, the prop-powered Tupolev Tu-95 "Bear". Taking to his new country with a passion, Hans had seen that his wife and sons- Alexei had been born in 2001, the first Kriegman given a Russian name from birth- learned Russian, followed important development in Russian news and, above all, that his family began to think of Russia as their country. Naturally, when the Second Russian Civil War broke out in 2011, the breaking point of long-building tensions between pro-Soviet and pro-democratic factions within the Russian Federation, Andrei's father had flown for the Ultranationalists, swiftly gaining their trust as he flew over a dozen missions, bombing all manner of government targets in his relentless pursuit of Ultranationalist victory.

Then the war had been over; for a time, it had actually been bafflingly difficult to determine who had won. Then Andrei, an eighteen-year-old Naval Infantryman who had guarded the Mayor of Kaliningrad throughout the war, had been summoned by his father, along with his mother and younger brother, to Moscow- Colonel Hans Kriegman of the Russian Air Force was soon after presented with the decoration Hero of the Russian Federation for his loyal and tireless service throughout the one-year civil war.

The officer presenting the decorations had been the legendary Vice Admiral Alexei Stukov, an iron-tough, hard-line naval officer who had ended up being half the reason the Loyalists had next to no control of the Russian Navy at the end of the war. It wasn't just Admiral Stukov's tactical and strategic brilliance that made the difference, though he had been unmatched by any naval officer belonging to the Loyalists throughout the war. No, it was Stukov's fiery, bigger-than-life personality that made him so feared and respected. Men under Stukov's command would rather die than disappoint him, and there was, throughout the civil war, a growing conviction among the sailors, airmen and marines under Stukov- a conviction that they could not be defeated under his leadership.

The war itself had been a stalemate; in some places the Loyalists had been the victors when the fighting ended, while other regions of the country were solidly held by the Ultranationalists. When the war was declared over, though, and everyone started to calm down and go home, the facts had begun to become clear. Imran Zakhaev had not been some murdering psychopath, a man who had for no reason but spite supplied Wadiyan extremist Al-Asad with the nuclear weapon that Al-Asad himself had used to destroy his country's capital. Nor had Zakhaev been an opportunist in the post-Soviet days, a black-market dealer whose favourite item was nuclear weapons. Andrei, admitted to the Moscow State Aviation Institute through his own back-breaking work in school and in recognition of the patriotism of his father, had told his fellow cadets of this.

He'd even argued with instructors, declaring that if Imran Zakhaev, of all people, had been some post-Soviet-era gangster just like all the rest, then there was little hope for Russia at all. His impassioned arguments won over not only cadets but even instructors, and the Moscow State Aviation Institute had gradually become a place where the Ultranationalists knew they had people they could count on.

Andrei had been one month from graduation when the Zakhaev International Airport Massacre had occurred on April 19, 2016. When the news had come out that the attack had been carried out with American firearms and explosives, and that the dead comrade they left behind had clearly been an American, outraged protests had exploded across the vastness of Russia. Andrei and a few other cadets nearly lost relatives in the attack; Andrei's mother and Alexei, his little brother, had been flying in to join Andrei's father in Moscow so they could be there for Andrei's graduation.

The pilot of the airliner had actually been touching down when the shooting had started, and upon receiving an alert from the control tower, the crew had swiftly gunned the engines and simply taken off again. They'd landed in another of Moscow's airports, a secondary one that many flights were forced to divert to once ZIA was shut down. Andrei was one of the lucky cadets; tense and pale, many cadets who'd had family at Zakhaev International had slept poorly for days until they heard the news. Andrei had been fortunate- his waiting ended with the best possible outcome. His whole family was safe. Not all of his classmates- and not just in the senior class- were as lucky.

Morale and motivation in the RDU's armed forces had gone on a sharp climb after April 19th. The massive buildup and modernization of the Russian military had suddenly paid off. It soon began filtering through the armed forces, and the service schools of the military, that vengeance was coming, and on a massive scale. The West would have a fight of they wanted one. It was a rumor only, but everyone knew it was just a matter of time. When the cadets of the Moscow State Aviation Institute had heard about it, the regimental commander, a personal friend to many in the senior class, had begun banging his glass on the table in the mess hall that evening. The chant was started by him and Andrei- the regimental executive officer- and picked up first by the regimental staff table, then by the rest of the senior class, and finally every cadet in the mess hall. Banging their glasses and stomping their boots, Andrei's class had shouted above all the rest, in one savagely joyful voice: "We're going to war! We're going to war! _We're going to war_!"

In response, the Colonel-General in charge of the Institute had solemnly stood, raising his glass to the cadets in salute. Too old to join the fight himself, he could only envy the dozens of young men before him who would be going at the best possible time- right in the prime of their manhood. They were young, strong, and brave- and the Colonel-General (a Lieutenant General, the Americans would have called him) knew he had trained them well.

Andrei had opted to commission as a Naval Aviation officer, a Midshipman- for the Navy, the most basic officer rank. Assigned to the 126th Independent Helicopter Squadron aboard the _Admiral Yuri Borodin_- the Northern Fleet's mightiest aircraft carrier, Andrei had quickly proved himself. He was young and had only just commissioned into the Russian Navy, but his youth made it easy for Andrei to be daring as a pilot- and it helped a great deal that he was also damn good. Hearing about how pilots of the older Mi-24 had managed to make it do such maneuvers as a barrel-roll- something the Crocodile was supposed to be too heavy to do- Andrei had done tried the same thing with his new Mi-45 on one of his first training flights. The instructor had yelled at him once they were back on the carrier's deck, yelling at Andrei to never do that again… and then he'd smiled, turning to the commanding officer of the unit and telling him, "This young man is just the kind we need".

The Mil Mi-45, known to its pilots as the "Lightning Crocodile" for its powerful weapons yet surprisingly graceful way of flying, was the elite of the Russian aviation forces' attack helicopters. The Kamov Ka-50 and Ka-52 might have been swifter, more agile, and the Mil Mi-28 "Havoc" was certainly better designed to duel air-to-air with the American AH-64 Apache.

But the Mi-45 was not the big, clumsy aerial opponent the Americans were used to reading and drilling about. They knew all of the older gunships, what fine tank-killers they were but how clumsy they tended to be when fighting other helicopters. The Mi-45, built with lighter and stronger materials and improved in many ways, still kept the essential design the same. Its job was to destroy targets on the ground, first and foremost, and to act as a casualty-evactuation helicopter and troop transport if need required, since the troop bay rear of the twin-bubble cockpits could hold a squad of infantry.

The Mi-45 differed from its predecessor in that it could not only carry air-to-ground and air-to-air ordnance in a given flight, but it was agile enough now that it stood a solid chance of using them. Andrei loved the Crocodile in any form. Big, powerful, and surprisingly fast even in its older forms, the "Hind" as NATO called it was a dangerous opponent. Against tanks and infantry there was nothing it could not do- no enemy it couldn't overwhelm, no target it couldn't destroy. Pilots loved the big, fierce-looking gunships, and the Mi-45M- the blue-gray-painted Navy version- was received just as well by the Navy as the Mi-45 was by the Air Force.

Andrei was 5' 11'', perfectly average for his age of 22. He had short-cut black hair, gray eyes, and a lean, athletic figure. He wasn't especially imposing at first glance, but Andrei had grown up in a family very much down on his luck; he'd learned to win fistfights the hard way at school, and had endured the excruciating hazing imposed on freshmen at the Moscow SAI manfully. He never listened to anyone when he'd made up his mind to do something, and was as daring a pilot as anyone else in the squadron.

This morning, the 40 Mi-45's of the 126th were all lined up on the flight deck of the _Admiral Yuri Borodin._ The Naval Infantry- better known to the West as Russian Marines- hurried about in their own camouflage uniforms, carrying a multitude of machine guns, assault rifles, and packs stuffed with gear. Mechanics and air crew busied themselves under the gray sky, knowing their target- New York City- was not very far away.

Andrei peered into the morning mist, looking far down the _Admiral Yuri Borodin_'s flight deck and off past her bow. He knew the so-called "Big Apple" was out there somewhere. He almost felt like he could see it- and very much looked forward to taking a nice, big chunk out of it.


	2. Chapter 2- Admiral Stukov

**Chapter II- Admiral Stukov**

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The flight deck of the _Admiral Yuri Borodin_ was silent. Sitting across the flight deck from each other, two long rows of 20 Mi-45 gunships sat silently, their blue-gray hulls painted with a red star, showing their allegiance to the new Russia. Stubby wings held scores of missiles and rockets; the Super Hinds were much better equipped than the Americans would be expecting. Beside the forward bubble on each gunship's cockpit stood the Weapons Systems Officer, and to his left stood the Flying Officer. Teams of eight Marines stood in formation behind them, their AK-97 assault rifles in hand. Wind whipped across the flight deck, blowing cold spray into the faces of the many men standing at attention. Nobody cared. It might have been cold outside, but the men felt warm. They felt so proud, so confident of the righteousness of their cause, that not even the deadly cold of the Arctic Circle could have dampened their spirits. Some of these men had lost relatives on April 19th. Some had come close. All of them wanted payback for it.

Andrei stood stiffly at attention in his iron gray flight suit, the helmet clutched firmly under his right arm. In one of his pockets he held a Makarov pistol, the name still used despite the infamy of one of its designer's descendants. Strapped to his right leg was an AKS-97, so named for its collapsible metal stock. Held in place on the inside of his flight suit, the AK was there if Andrei was forced down and had to fight his way out to friendly lines during the invasion; nobody expected it would be them, but every man in the 126th knew there would be casualties. Some of the Mi-45's that went up today would not come back. But all of them would fly over the shores of the United States and attack with everything they had. This was no mere idea, or experiment- this was the real thing.

The Armed Forces of the Russian Democratic Union were invading the United States of America; for so many of these men, it was the dream of their fathers and grandfathers come true. Never again would Russia kneel to gangsters and corrupt, self-serving politicians. The free worker of the West was free only to starve, and excessive, rampant American mantras of individualism were slowly ruining the country as the once-great Americans steadily ignored their own failings, preferring to entertain themselves to death rather than notice the elephant in the room.

Standing there on the flight deck of the _Admiral Yuri Borodin_ as dawn slowly approached, Andrei's chest swelled with pride: he wasn't just doing this for Zakhaev, for his family- for his grandfather, who had been ruined by the machinations of the Americans and the capitalist bankers in West Germany. This was not just for the children killed at Zakhaev International, the mothers and fathers, uncles and sons. This was for the thousands of good people who had lived and died, unknown and unmourned, in the chaotic, hopeless days the Russian people had endured since 1990. And above all, this was for what was to come. If the rampant, shameless selfishness and materialism of the West wasn't curbed, oblivion was in the world's future. Russia was going to liberate them all- not just Russia, but Europe, America, and in time the world. The RDU was going to liberate them all from the fate the Western governments didn't want their own citizens to see. This was not for Russia alone, but for the world. This war would be for all of them, to set them all free from the fate they themselves didn't know was coming. This was for all of them.

And if thousands, perhaps even millions- many of them innocents- had to die for this future to happen?

One sentence spoke in Andrei's mind, the only possible answer: _So be it_. It was time to sacrifice thousands now to save millions later; it was time to let a thousand flowers bloom. There would be a million more the following spring; Andrei felt honoured knowing he would play a part in making such a day possible.

Then a voice- that of Captain, 2nd Rank Dmitri Kaczynski, the 126th Squadron's commander- sounded easily down the flight deck as he stood beside his gunship, the head of the first row that would be taxiing down the runway and lifting into the air. Like their predecessors, Mi-45's loaded down with a full complement of ordnance had to take short, rolling takeoffs rather than go straight up. The Mi-45's needed runway was shorter than the Mi-24, but it was a shortcoming regardless.

"Comrades," Kaczynski shouted, "Today is a great day. For Russia, and though they don't know it yet, for the world. Today we fly first into combat, and into the pages of history."

The men of the 126th stood at attention and listened, proud to have so courageous a man as their commander- Kaczynski would never surrender even if he was shot down. Having lost his brother in the massacre on April 19th, he would die fighting hand-to-hand before allowing himself to be captured. His fierce, fiery passion as a source of motivation for every man in the 126th- a good officer, Kaczynski knew how to make his men fear him more than they feared the enemy. But nobody could have been prepared for what the Captain said next.

"Comrades," he shouted proudly down the two rows of helicopters, "We are honoured greatly today. A speech has been written by Admiral of the Fleet Alexei Stukov, and at this time this morning, it will be read to the crew of every ship in the three invasion fleets the Northern Fleet has been divided into. South and Central will have the speech read to them by their commanding admirals; but we are honoured above even those great comrades of ours. As the rest of the men in the North Fleet hear the speech from their captains, we will hear it from Admiral Stukov himself."

As Captain Kaczynski returned to standing at attention beside his own blue-gray attack helicopter, a lone figure strode confidently, swiftly, out onto the flight deck, taking the Captain's place at the head of the two rows of gunships. He wore the blue-black dress uniform of an officer of the Russian Navy, a black officer's hat set over his iron-grey hair. His cold gray eyes stared out from under it, and his jaw was set firmly as he gazed up and down the two rows for a moment. Then he began to speak; like Kaczynski before him, Stukov needed no megaphone for the men to hear him. He spoke, and the men of the 126th heard him without difficulty.

"Comrades," he began, shouting with ease over the blowing wind and light rain, "Today, we avenge the many wrongs done to our country. Today, we sail, fly, and fight into history. Your fathers and grandfathers, your uncles and your older brothers, have been valiant, worthy opponents of the West for generations. They stood up to the hypocrisy of the capitalists, of the so-called "free world" as they worked every day to destroy the socialist freedoms the workers of the Soviet Union had created for themselves.

The Americans believe Russia a beaten nation, and her citizens a beaten people. I say different! I say that after all the hardships and injustices we have endured at their hands, we have all been toughened so that a thousand of us could easily triumph over ten thousand of theirs!"

Pointing behind him, down the Admiral Yuri Borodin's bow and towards the shores of the United States that were somewhere out there, miles off through the mist, Stukov bellowed, "The Americans think that not being able to get a, "Big Mac" with a double order of fries is adversity! They think five minutes of being stuck in traffic is hardship! But you and I- we know different, comrades! Miles from here, the Americans are safely sitting in their homes, feeling no need to right the wrongs they have committed- no, comrades! Not even the murder done at the Zakhaev Airport is enough to awaken their consciences! We fight today, comrades, to avenge the dead at Zakhaev Airport in Moscow. We fight, to free the world from rampant, uncontrolled materialism and selfishness. We fight, to save Russia from a fate worse than death!

When you fly over the Americans' biggest, most vaunted city today, you will be attacking a nation that has never known the need to fight for their lives. Every man, woman and child, fighting with everything they have- this is no alien thing to us, but it is to them. The Americans will learn today that they are not as strong as they believe they are, nor are we as weak.

When you each kill your first American today, remember that he would have gladly killed you had you given him the chance. Show no mercy, comrades, for your enemies will do the same! Fight for the new Russia, for your families, for your brothers, your fathers, your mothers and your sons! FIGHT! FOR ZAKHAEV!"

"FOR ZAKHAEV!" the men roared back.

For a moment, the flight deck was again silent. Admiral Stukov looked over the ranks of the 126th once again. He knew he'd chosen the right vessel as his flagship, and the right unit to deliver his speech to personally. Finally, he said in a solemn voice, "You are the Navy's finest. I know you will all do your duty. I am proud to send you into battle. _Workers of the world, unite_!"

"WORKERS OF THE WORLD, UNITE!" the pilots and Marines of the 126th roared; none of them had any difficulty remembering the old Soviet motto, and they shouted it with gusto. Finally, Admiral Stukov saluted them, and Captain Kaczynski called the command for the men to salute back. Stukov strode back off the flight deck, and the flight crews and Marines ran for their helicopters.


	3. Chapter 3- Takeoff

**Chapter III- Takeoff**

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Captain Kaczynski's gunship was the first to take off, the lead helicopter in the starboard group. Sitting on the port side of the deck, the line that Andrei Kriegman's Mi-45 was a part of had at least a minute or two before they, too, would be in their gunships and in the air. Sailors hurried about, mechanics making last-minute checks as the flight deck sailors guided the first gunships into the air.

Somebody tapped him on the shoulder as Andrei was putting on his flight helmet; he turned to see Sergeant Pavel Andropov of the Russian Naval Infantry, a short, grizzled veteran who was one of the best Marines attached to the squadron. His dark brown eyes locked with Andrei's own, and he held out a gloved hand, shifting his AK-97 onto its sling. "Good luck to you, Midshipman Kriegman," Andropov said solemnly.

"The same," Andrei said, shaking hands with the older man. Andropov nodded and turned back to his men; within a few moments they were all inside the central troop bay, packed into the tight space for infantry on the Russian helicopter.

Midshipman Viktor Orlov was already inside the forward bubble cockpit, running preliminary checks to ensure the weapons were all ready to go. He even had a separate set of flight controls- if Andrei was killed, Orlov would take control of the Lightning Crocodile, but for now he was WSO, and Andrei had told Orlov it would stay that way. As they got up very early this morning, Andrei had said with a wry smile, "Don't get your hopes up too high. You'll get your chance to fly one yourself soon enough, but I don't think it'll be today. I have no intention of dying."

Orlov had chuckled. "A shame. I shaved extra close this morning so the bullet that would've gotten me would instead sail by and get you." Andrei had laughed.

The low whine of helicopter engines could be heard as they started up all over the flight deck; rotor blades began to spin, soon elevating the sound into a growing roar. Andrei looked around briefly, instinctively patting the left breast pocket of his flight suit, something he did before every flight. In there was a picture of Andrei's family- his mother, his father in full Russian Air Force dress uniform, and his younger brother Alexei, fifteen years old and trying hard to look like a man but grinning too much to make it- gathered around Andrei in his black cadet dress uniform on the day he graduated from the Moscow State Aviation Institute. That had only been a few months ago, and was one of Andrei's most vivid and treasured memories.

But as Andre patted the left breast pocket, a cold fear gripped him. The picture- it wasn't there! He unzipped the pocket, felt inside- nothing. Andrei swore violently under his breath, in German rather than Russian. He looked around at his squadron; the first group of 20 was steadily taking off, and most all of the other 20 had their engines up and running.

Andrei distantly remembered looking at the photo during breakfast this morning; he must have forgotten it in the mess hall or in the briefing room. There was no time to go back for it; Andrei cursed his stupidity, mourned his inexcusable failure, but turned to his gunship and stood on the small step-ladder that was there to allow the pilot- Andrei- to reach the Mi-45's upper bubble cockpit door. He swung open the small door and was preparing to get inside when he heard a voice distantly shouting, "Comrade Midshipman! Comrade Midshipman!"

The pilot turned and looked; a mechanic in gray coveralls was hurrying across the flight deck towards him, keeping his head down. Andrei recognized him immediately: Chief Starshina Josef Karpin, the senior mechanic for the squadron. Well past fifty, Karpin had been working on Russian Navy jets and helicopters most of his adult life, and was well-respected by the mechanics under him, as well as the pilots over him, for the devotion and care he saw given to each aircraft. The old man's word was law when it came to aviation maintenance; even officers hesitated to question Karpin's judgment. But he was as caring as he was serious, and Chief Starshina Karpin had a particularly good relationship with the junior pilots, who he saw as Russia's best and brightest, the ones who would one day lead the Navy as admirals of the fleet.

Word had it he had a special liking for Andrei; the young East German was believed to remind him of his son, flying the Mi-24 that had been close by Imran Zakhaev at the end of the Second Russian Civil War. Sasha Karpin had been 22 years old when he died, shot down flying for the Ultranationalists. Behind the controls of a Mil Mi-24 gunship. Josef Karpin didn't care to confirm or deny the rumors, but he did indeed see Andrei Kriegman as being something of a second son.

The boy was bright, courageous, and an excellent pilot; it didn't matter at all to the old mechanic that Andrei was actually an East German. He had so much potential, that young pilot, and Josef Karpin feared for how many fine young men the Motherland would lose today, tomorrow, and throughout the war. He wished for a Russian victory, and a swift one- but he feared what the cost would be before the end.

Josef Karpin's greatest sadness from losing his son was never having a chance to say goodbye. He had been in Murmansk when he'd gotten the news; there would've been no chance to say anything to Sasha, even had he known what was going to happen. He had really come to like this young East-German-turned-Russian over the months he'd been with the 126th, and Josef had been aching for a chance to speak with him once last time before takeoff, to wish him only the best of luck… and to be able to feel like he'd done all he could, said all he could, just in case the boy didn't come back.

The opportunity had come that morning, when Chief Starshina Karpin had found Midshipman Kriegman's family photo- the one he prized so much, and had told Karpin once he never flew without- on one of the chairs on the pilots' briefing room as he passed by there with a cup of coffee from the mess hall. Recognizing the photo and the young pilot in it, Karpin set down the mug of coffee and sprinted through the narrow passageways of the Admiral Yuri Borodin, hoping he would be able to reach the flight deck before the second group of Mi-45's lifted off…

"Midshipman Kriegman!" Karpin called a third time, though the young pilot had already halted from climbing into the cockpit of his gunship and was looking at him, surprised and curious- but perhaps, also a little pleased. If the word was true that Josef Karpin looked at Kriegman as a son was true, then it was equally true that Karpin reminded Andrei Kriegman of his grandfather. A good and humble officer, Kriegman had often visited the maintenance bays on the aircraft carrier, thanking the enlisted men for their work. Josef Karpin had heard the East German talk many times of his grandfather- a Vizeadmiral in the Volksmarine, and last commander of the East German navy. Andrei had adored his grandfather and still did.

Finally, Karpin crossed had crossed the flight deck and was standing beside the blue-gray Mi-45, looking up at its Flying Officer. He knew there was little time, so Karpin didn't waste any with the formalities of saluting; he just handed Kriegman the photograph. "I thought you might need this, Comrade Midshipman," Karpin said simply. "It would be a shame if you forgot it."

The pilot looked at the photo for a moment, then at Karpin, a look in his eyes that was difficult to read. Then he glanced back inside the open door of the gunship; briefly he had noticed this before, but now he was stunned by it.

The Flying Officer's cockpit of the Mi-45 was spotless. Every control, every dial, the seat and the floor pedals, even the floor itself had been scrubbed and cleaned to perfection. Andrei suddenly felt powerfully moved, and he had to remember to unzip his left breast pocket before placing the photograph inside.

Andrei was scared. He knew he was probably much more than scared; if he gave himself much chance to think about it, he'd likely realise he was terrified. And yet… somehow… this one moment, this one act of kindness by the enlisted mechanic, made Andrei feel steadier, more certain. Like he was ready.

Andrei hopped down from the step-ladder. He didn't have a lot of time, but it was time well-spent to take a few moments for this. The young pilot took a step towards the veteran mechanic. Quietly, Andrei looked him steadily in the eyes and said, "I want to thank you for all that you've done for me and my squadron. For preparing my helicopter so perfectly for the mission this morning. It means a great deal to me."

Then he held out a hand, looking far more grown-up than his years should have permitted. Josef Karpin had to remember to shake it. Unable to speak, he nodded to Andrei, who nodded in turn, seeming to understand. Moments later he had the cockpit door shut, and with a few pre-flight checks he started up the engines, the rotors quickly blurring as they spun ever faster. Over the roar of the many Mi-45's readying for takeoff- and doing so, rolling down the flight deck and then lifting into the air, retracting their gear as they went- Josef Karpin could not hear the flight deck crewman asking him to move off the flight deck. Upon seeing who he was- and noticing the look on his face- the younger man left Karpin alone.

The Mi-45 flown by Andrei Kriegman soon began to turn as it prepared to make its takeoff run. Unable to speak, Josef Karpin ran a hand along its starboard wing as it taxied out for takeoff, tears glistening in his eyes.


End file.
